It was sometime around his seventeenth winter when Svorbald first started punching people in the face. A year later he’d become good enough that most of them stopped punching back. Now, a few years after that, he was able to make a nice living out of it. If living meant having enough mead and meat to make it from one day to the next. Which, for Svorbald, it very much did. Unfortunately, his talent for hitting people often lead to receiving all sorts of annoying callers.

“Go away!” he yelled, unsuccessfully, at the door.

“Svorbald!” The door, or was more likely, the person on the other side of the door, yelled back. “I have ale and bread and need of your fists.”

Svorbald swore and then, when that didn’t work, swore some more. Eventually the hammering at the door became so loud it drowned out even the beating in his skull.

“Alright! I’m coming!” He stumbled from his messy cot, threw on some soiled clothing, and swung open the door. A small man stood there, rheumy eyed and pink faced.

Svorbald pushed past him and marched to a rain barrel. With a loud and satisfying belch and more than a degree of reluctance, he stuck his head deep into the cold water. It filled his nose, cleared his head and made him wish for all the world he hadn’t done it.

Flicking water form his long hair and messy beard he pulled his head free and gasped. “Tenatun ’s tits that’s cold!” Still, he at least felt a little more awake now. Remembering the fool who had woken him, Svorbald turned, sniffed, and grunted. “What?”

The little man shot a nervous glance around the small village. Already people were stirring. More than stirring. Most looked like they’d been awake and working for some time. Even now the butcher hacked at a block of meat, while his pretty young wife hung dripping laundry over a line.

“My ass!”

“What?” Svorbald was pulled away from village life. He scrunched up his face, which he liked to do when someone had said something stupid. It was an expression he wore often.

“Those bastards stole my ass!” The little man said. He was purple in the face now, a beet with whispy white hair.

“Who? What?” Svorbald asked, unable to keep a chuckle from his throat as the little man hammered one small first into his palm. It was altogether the most unthreatening gesture Svorbald had ever seen.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Them damn Coxswains! They stole it when they came to market. Tenatun take them!”

“Lower your voice, man! My head still throbs.” Svorbald threw a glance to the grey skies. “It must be this damn weather. You said you had bread. And ale.”

The small man paused before rummaging around in his cloak. He removed a cask and a loaf and Svorbald drank deeply and ate noisily. “Ok,” he said after some time, spitting bread crumbs into the air. “Tell your story again - in a quieter voice.”

When the short stranger had finished his short tale of donkey-theft, Svorbald chortled. Bastards was a generous word for the Coxswains, who’d had more than their fair share of run-ins with Svorbald himself. “So they stole your beast and you want me to get it back for you?”

“Aye. And I’ll reward you for it too.”

“Aye?”

“Aye!” With that the little man pulled something from beneath his cloak and threw it towards Svorbald, who caught it clumsily.

“What is it?” He asked, hefting the the metal band in his hands.

“A torc. Gold! Real gold,” the man nodded proudly.

Svorbald humphed. “So this is gold, is it? Ive heard of it.” He tossed the band from one hand to the next. “I thought it would be shinier.” It took a deal of effort to drag his eyes from the torc, for it was wonderfully crafted, twisted like fine rope. “And what am I going to do with gold? I need food. Salt or spices. Ale!”

The man looked a little uncertain. “In Vermasse you could trade that for a year’s supply of ale. More, even!”

That grabbed Svorbald’s attention. A year’s supply of ale and he wouldn’t even have to hit anyone. Unless he really wanted to. “Vermasse is miles away. Why would I ever want to go there?”

“Because, in Vermasse, that gold would make you rich. But here - or anywhere else - it’s useless,” the man countered.

He had a point. Although gold hadn’t been used in Verma since the world fell, it was still said to be used in the capital. Didn’t make much sense to Svorbald, who was still examining the torc closely. What good did this serve? You sure as hell couldn’t eat or drink gold. It did look nice, though. He had to admit that much.

“This isn’t Vermasse, little man. And I have no plans to go there!”

The older man squared his shoulders and stuck out a weak chin. “So, instead of living like a king for a year with all the women and ale you could ever want, you’ll live like a peasant for a lifetime?”

“Women?”

“Oh aye. In Vermasse you could buy a princess with that!”

Svorbald scowled. You couldn’t just buy princesses. Could you? He supposed they were known for being rich and they had to have got all those riches somehow. “And how do I get to Vermasse from here?”

“Well… it’s a long way,” the man admitted.

Svorbald a-ha’d! He had said it was. This man was an idiot for thinking Svorbald a fool.

“But a man like you,” the stranger continued. “Big long legs, you could walk there in a week!”

A week. That did sound tempting. A week of walking to become a king. Not a bad trade. Svorbald narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

“Just a man whose ass has been stolen.”

“And if I get the animal back for you you’ll give me this?” He hefted the torc to the skies.

“That’s right.”

“And you’ll show me how to get to Vermasse with my new gold?”

“I will,” the man nodded.

Svorbald scowled. “This had better not be a trick. If it is I’ll throw you and your damn torc into a swamp!”

“But… why would you throw the torc in too?” The stranger asked.

“What?”

“Wouldn’t you want to keep the torc and just throw me in? Never mind, It doesn’t matter! Will you help me?”

Svorbald sighed heavily through his nostrils. The noise of the village washed over him. People worked and gossiped as they had everyday. As they would continue to do everyday. This muddy village was no place for a man of Svorbald’s talents. Svorbald had always known that. But Vermasse! Even though he’d never been there. Or met anyone from there. Or really even heard much about it, he was sure it was a place that would welcome him. “Alright, little man, let’s go get your beast.”